


Like Fire in Your Blood

by Accidental_Ducky



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Creature Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Non-Canonical Character Death, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Peter/Melissa, Touch-Starved Peter Hale, off-screen character death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-09 18:38:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16455212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accidental_Ducky/pseuds/Accidental_Ducky
Summary: After Peter’s home and family are burned to the ground he makes a wish, calls upon the demon his great-grandmother had spoken of so reverently. Ink dark hair and bright honey eyes that can turn burnt gold in a second of rage, a sharp tongue and magic sparking at fingertips the color of moonlight, a creature of myth to be feared and worshiped.Peter never expected to find all of that encompassed in the skinny frame of a teenaged boy, but stranger things have most certainly happened.





	1. bide my time

I

Peter remembers the agony of fire scorching up his side, the feeling of his flesh bubbling even as it tried to heal; it was repetitive, cruel, and it was driving him half insane. The pain wasn’t even the worst part, he reserved that title for the screams torn out of his family as they died around him.

Fire sears through him, through his veins as his vision turns a bright, vivid red and familiar ties snapped like twine. He writhes on the basement floor, the concrete scratching at his bare skin as his clothes turn to ash. Beside him, his wife goes still and her back thumps to the ground for a final time.

Peter can feel his teeth lengthening as the Change overtakes him, fur sprouting and claws spearing into the cement as his back bows in agony. Far away and muffled is the sound of husky laughter, the huntress that started the blaze enjoying her work from a safe distance outside. Peter knows what that means, the fact that his ears can pick up the noise, but he refuses to think of his sister as dead just yet. Talia is strong, his Alpha, she has to survive even if no one else does.

Some point after one of the support beams collapses on top of him, Peter remembers the stories his great-grandmother used to tell him. He’d been small and she’d been the Alpha at the time, they would curl up near the lake in the woods and she would tell him stories of Fae beings. One in particular had been her favorite, a tale from ancient times in Poland—a fairy tale and prophecy all rolled into one.

 _(Sometimes, if you close your eyes and wish hard enough, he’ll come to you._  
_how will i know it’s him, nan?_  
_You’ll know him by his ink black hair and burnt gold eyes that glow in his terrible rages. He has a sharp tongue and magic that comes in bursts around fingertips the color of moonlight. You must not summon him unless you have no other choice, Pup, creatures like him always expect a heady price in the end)_

Peter craves revenge for what’s happening to his pack.

He squeezes his eyes closed, teeth bared in a snarl, and Peter _wishes_.

When he opens them again, the space around him is dark and his body is suspended in the air and he thinks—hopes—that he’s died. He stares around him, resigned to the blankness of the afterlife if it means the screams are gone with the pain. He releases a sigh, just a quiet whisper of air that forms into a pale vapor.

It’s cold here, but cold is so much better than searing heat that burns and tears and destroys.

“Who are you?” The voice catches him off guard and his gaze snaps in the direction it came from, crimson instead of an icy blue. “Why does a ‘wolf summon me?” There’s a flash in the darkness, like a lighter shade of black against the impenetrable void.

“Revenge.” Peter’s voice is little more than a croak, vocal chords strained from screaming for what feels like hours.

“That’s all anyone ever wants.” There’s a brush of soft fur against Peter’s face, but it’s gone just as quickly. “What makes you so special?”

“Nothing, I’m sure. But I’ll pay whatever price you demand. I’ll give you anything.”

“What if I want the soul of your firstborn?” Peter freezes and then there’s laughter, dark and rolling like a thunderclap. “Relax, ‘wolf, the souls of children are hardly interesting. Besides, you have that particular scent of loss that means your firstborn has already passed. What was its name?”

“Jackson.” It leaves his lips on a sob and the tears he manages to shed float upwards in cloudy droplets. “His name was Jackson and he was just murdered by hunters along with the rest of my pack.” There’s silence and Peter is beginning to think that the stranger has left until he feels the swish-flick of a tail against one of his hands.

“You want revenge on those hunters?” It’s not a question even if it’s phrased like one, more statement of fact that’s long been acknowledged. “I’ll help you.”

“What’s your price in return?” A sharp claw runs along his cheek, the tip of it skimming under one of his eyes. Peter doesn’t flinch away from the sting, it heals fast enough and it’s nothing compared to what he’d felt just minutes ago. Or maybe it was hours. Time means nothing when you’re immersed in torment and thrust into this other realm.

“This I’ll do for free. Hunters killed my mother and I take a special sort of glee in watching the life leave their eyes. You need to wake up, ‘wolf. Open those pretty red eyes for me.”

Peter’s eyes flicker open  
_(again? or maybe he never had them open to begin with)_  
and he takes in the glittering stars far above his head. It’s a different sort of darkness than before, not clogged with smoke or unreality. He sucks in deep breaths of clean air and the burn eases in his chest.

“What’s your name? I can’t exactly call you _‘wolf_ for however long this takes.” Peter’s gaze flicks to the voice from that other place, taking in hair that’s just long enough to hang over the being’s forehead and the predatory curve of his smile. And his great-grandmother’s words come to him again.

Ink dark hair and bright honey eyes that can turn burnt gold in a second of rage, a sharp tongue and magic sparking at fingertips the color of moonlight, a creature of myth to be feared and worshiped. Peter never expected to find all of that encompassed in the skinny frame of a teenaged boy, but stranger things have most certainly happened.

“Peter Hale,” he rasps out. “What’s yours?” The smile grows wider, too many teeth that are too sharp to be human. Peter can appreciate it, the sharp points of the creature’s nails even as they turn dull and intelligence that brightens his stare. The creature tilts its head to the side, a vulpine gesture of curiosity.

“Stiles Stilinski.”

 

II

Peter remembers Christmas nights that he used to scoff at even if the sight of his children happily tearing into presents made him feel like the happiest man on earth. Jackson and Malia and Scott used their claws to rip the silk wrapping paper and that was probably the part they loved the best. Next to them was Laura, older and the heir apparent to the Hale fortune and so calmly unwrapping her presents one by one.

There would be garlands of bright gold and red twining around the bannisters and a wreathe hung over the mantel. Talia’s kids run rampant, the pups digging into the desserts that have been piled on a table by loyal servants—humans mostly, but a couple are Betas.

After presents was a hunt, the ‘wolves set loose in the expansive woods that surrounded their house. Peter would shift as well as he could, in charge of keeping the pups safe and crowded for the first two hours before his brother-in-law took over and Peter could go find some small woodland creature to sink teeth and claws into.

He wouldn’t return to the mansion until the sun was cresting on the horizon, copper heavy on his tongue and all but his trousers missing. Jackson, Cora, and Derek would be passed out on the sofa, but his baby girl would be bright-eyed as she ran over and jumped into his arms.

Peter lived for that moment, the unparalleled joy in Malia’s brown eyes _(her mother’s eyes, her brother’s eyes)_ as she grins up at him. She was only four, unable to make even a Beta shift, but there were faint ridges over her brows and a golden gleam to her beautiful eyes. She would demand a fairy tale from him and he would take her to that lake hidden deep in the woods, surrounded by lush trees and greenery, and they would sit on a log that Peter’s great-grandmother had dragged over when Peter was small.

They would sit there for hours afterwards, even after Malia’s heartbeat slowed with sleep and her head rested against his shoulder. He would run careful fingers through her hair, the intricate braiding undone by then anyway with a few dead leaves caught up in the thick mass of it. He would carry her back up to the house by noon and he’d settle her in the large bed Peter and Melissa shared before heading downstairs by the siren call of cooking meat.

The day after Christmas is for recovery, lazing around with no worries to gnaw at them and still moon high from the night before. Peter would take Scott into the woods to look at the small creatures as they went about their business, his son watching with wide eyes as a small bunny disappeared into its burrow while Peter’s gaze strayed towards the flash of dark fur as a fox ran into the trees.

That afternoon, he’d take Jackson into town to visit with the other children and let him put on his human guise that he loves so much. Jackson is his firstborn, the one Peter fought to keep alive the first year after his birth, so Jackson could get away with most everything even if it means roughhousing _(and sharing his first kiss years down the road, though peter swore to never tell)_ with a human boy named Danny.

The evenings were reserved for Malia. He’d take her up onto the roof to look at the stars and the moon and Peter would tell her an old Polish story-turned-prophecy of a creature with moon-bright skin and long fingers capable of granting wishes after a price has been taken. He told her about wishes and sparks of magic.

Jackson was only thirteen when he died, Scott was eleven, and Malia was seven.

And Peter _wishes_.

 

III

“How old are you?”

“Older than you.”

“But you look like a teenager.”

“Magic.”

 

IV

The first hunter to be killed is a man named Garrison Myers, a lord that’s gambled most of his fortune away and is suddenly rubbing elbows with the finest people in Beacon Hills. The man never expects it when Peter shows up uninvited to the man’s stately new home least of all when Peter’s eyes flash the same red as the man’s blood when it hits the cream wall in an arterial spray. For the first time in years, Peter savors the taste of warm blood as he sucks it off his claws.

Myers is half-dead on the floor, mouth opened in a scream that he can’t quite force out past the blood spewing from his lips. It’s a good look on him and Peter’s wolf can always appreciate a bared throat when it’s offered up to him. He doesn’t sink his teeth in, though, just watches as Myers’s body gives one last shudder before collapsing completely.

_(his wife goes still and her back thumps to the ground for a final time)_

Stiles comes out of the parlor, a glass of liquor in hand and curiosity turning honey eyes to whisky. He holds the glass out to Peter, but his eyes don’t leave the body. He almost looks…. Disappointed?

“You could have dragged that out a little.” Yes, disappointed. Peter’s used to having that sort of look sent his way.

_(he was never the favorite child, never strong enough or fast enough for his mother’s liking)_

“I’ll make the next one suffer a little more,” Peter says, and neither of them mention the promise in his voice. Stiles watches him for a moment until Peter finally takes the glass and downs it in one gulp, not even wincing as it goes down. It’s brandy of some kind, expensive, missing the touch of Wolfsbane that would allow him to lose his sobriety.

“I could have poisoned that.”

“You could have. You won’t.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because you still have need of me.” The curiosity never seems to leave Stiles, gaze bright as starlight and the color of flames that warm and destroy. A weaker person could fall in love with those eyes, but Peter isn’t weak anymore. Peter’s strong now, he can feel his newfound power pulsing in his veins as he flexes his hand.

It’s still covered in blood when Stiles takes it, admiring the color before producing a handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and wiping the tacky substance off. Peter lets him, soaking in the creature’s touch like it can cure the aching in his chest. He used to be touched all the time, Werewolves are tactile, but it’s been so long since he felt a kind hand against his own.

Stiles doesn’t do touching or personal space, which are really two things that shouldn’t go together so well. There were nights in the beginning when he would wake to find Stiles perched on the edge of his bed watching him sleep with his head tilted in observation, but there was no hand reaching out to brush a stray hair off Peter’s forehead or even the slightest brush of shoulders when they walked together.

Stiles doesn’t do touches and Peter is beginning to crave it.

His touch doesn’t linger, hands returning to his sides once the blood is gone and the handkerchief has been tossed away. Peter feels a surge of anger at the loss and throws the glass across the room, watching as it shatters and glittering shards sprinkle across the rug like diamonds.

_(he’d bought melissa a diamond engagement ring when they were seventeen, but it’s in the family mausoleum with the rest of his family now)_

“Burn the house down,” Peter commands, though his voice never rises over a murmur. “I don’t want to chance the murdering bastard coming back.” He turns and walks out as Stiles summons a small blaze that catches on all the wooden end tables Myers has lining the wall of his entrance hall. He can’t look back, can’t chance the bad memories that parade through his mind whenever he sees dancing flames.

He goes to a park three miles away and stares up at the crescent moon and the stars.

 

V

It takes nearly three and a half years to get the family mansion rebuilt to Peter’s ridiculously high standards, everything restored from the faulty stove in the kitchen to the squeaky floorboard up in the attic that Peter used to hate. He even went and found a family of mice to set up in the spare bedroom on the second floor in memory of Scott and his fondness for animals of any kind.

_(he brought home an injured fox one day. its foot had been caught in a trap and scott’s eyes widened and shined with tears until not even talia could refuse him)_

Stiles thinks it’s all silly, the lengths mortal men go to in order to have a structured life. “It’s downright irresponsible,” he says one night, nimble fingers picking apart a lifeless bunny. “Your lifespan is so short, yet you prefer to stay in one place instead of travel.”

“Not all mortals can afford to travel.” Stiles sends him a disbelieving look, like currency is something he’s never dealt with before. And who knows? Maybe Stiles gets things for free in that other realm, the one beyond the veil where everything is dark and still. “Believe me, you’ll be happy to have a roof that doesn’t leak once Winter arrives.”

Peter spends hours drawing up the blueprints for the house, supervises the work crew personally in case they tried to skip over any details. The days are long and the work is hard, but Peter finds himself rejuvenated whenever he looks at the sketches of what’s to come.

He’ll have his home back soon. He’ll build a pack. He’ll have his revenge. He keeps the words repeating in his head as he lies awake at night, trying his best to control his shift. Stiles never mentions the gouges in the blankets, just quietly asks a servant employed by the hotel to bring up fresh linen.

When the house is actually finished and Peter can run his hand over the smooth mahogany of the winding staircase, the emptiness in his chest eases somewhat. Stiles comes to stand next to him, hands in the pockets of his greatcoat with the brass buttons along the front gleaming in muted sunlight.

“Not bad,” Stiles admits, taking in the grandeur that would intimidate most people. But Stiles isn’t most people, he’s a Demon with no concept of what time is appropriate to sing an old song in a language Peter doesn’t know.

Still, he takes the victories where he can find them these days.

 

VI

The next hunter to die is found strung up by his ankles from a light post outside the police station, bled dry and covered in claw marks. It had taken him hours to die and his home is ashes by the time the fire crew make it there.

Surprisingly, there isn’t an investigation and Peter puts it down to Stiles’s magic until the police chief shows up at their hotel room with a grim set to his mouth and amusement in his eyes. Peter tenses, sure he’s about to be arrested, only to have the chief march straight past him to embrace Stiles in a tight hug that’s actually returned.

“Hey, Pops,” Stiles mumbles into the man’s neck.

“I take it this is your work.”

“I might have had some help.” They pull apart and the chief turns shrewd blue eyes to Peter, raking them up and down from the sleep-mussed hair to the bare toes peeking out from under his sleep pants. The chief takes a step forward and extends his hand, his grip firm and confident when he shakes Peter’s hand.

“John Stilinski,” the officer introduces.

“Peter Hale,” the ‘wolf copies. He keeps his head up like he was taught as a child, not showing any weakness despite the gnarled scars that cover most of his right side all the way up to his hairline. He’d asked Stiles if he could heal them, somewhere near the beginning of this whole ordeal, but the Demon had shaken his head and walked off into the woods.

“Those men, the two who’ve been murdered and had their houses burned down, were they hunters?”

“Yes.” There’s no point in lying, not when the chief so obviously knows about the supernatural.

“They’re the ones that burned your family.” Peter winces at the reminder, phantom pain lancing through him like a lightening strike. John doesn’t apologize or look at him in pity, he just nods like that’s all the confirmation he needs. “I’ll make sure these murders stay buried. Just take care of each other.”

“You don’t think I deserve to hang for my crimes?” John gives him a long look, searching and seeming to find something that makes his gaze soften. Still no pity, just a bone deep understanding.

“Hunters don’t deserve their lives.” And he walks out after one last glance in Stiles’s direction, the door closing softly behind him. Peter doesn’t ask about the elusive mother, the one who might have died just a few days ago from how fresh the pain is in the Demon’s posture.

But Peter wonders.

 

VII

“You don’t sleep?”

“No.”

“And you don’t eat or drink?”

“Only if I have to look human.”

 

VIII

Peter wakes one night and finds Stiles curled up in the window seat across the room, head titled back against a glass pane as he looks at the sky. It’s too cloudy to see the stars even with Werewolf vision, but Stiles is enraptured by something all the same. He’s all soft lines like this, suddenly looking far too young to be helping Peter murder grown adults.

“What are you looking at?”

“You don’t see it?” Peter’s brows furrow and he climbs out of the bed, goosebumps breaking out over his arms and bare chest from the cold. The fire’s gone out, he’ll have to hire a servant to tend to it. Outside, all Peter can see is faint wisps of cloud that are just thick enough to hide the moon from him. It’s not full yet, but nearly, maybe another week.

“See what?”

“The Wild Hunt.” Peter’s heard of them, more old stories his nan would tell him by that lake in the woods. Faeries that run through the sky on an indefinite quest to claim the souls of humans close to death, recruiting them to the hunt or just devouring them. Next to the Demon, the Wild Hunt was Nan’s favorite topic.

“You’re just hearing the wind, Stiles.” Stiles quirks his lips in a smile that’s not quite a smile, whiskey-dark eyes turning over to him instead of the clouds. There’s a knowledge in that gaze, heavy with all sorts of implications. He knows far more about the Hunt than Peter ever will, that’s what that stare means.

_(the fair folk are tricksters, pup, and they have lifetimes of knowledge to create those tricks)_

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, ‘wolf.” Stiles crosses the room and gets a fire going using only a snap of his fingers, curling up in front of it with his chin resting atop his knees. All the softness has gone out of him, the fire throws harsh shadows against the smooth plains of his face.

Peter lets the discussion drop and goes back to his bed, a massive thing for only one person, but he’s a creature of comfort above all else. The two heavy comforters he has draped over him serve the purpose of keeping him warm and tricking his subconscious into thinking he’s not alone.

He dreams that night—the wind howling like wild horses and pale pink lips that curl up in mimicry of a smile.

 

IX

Peter’s come to appreciate the way it feels to tear a throat out, lapping up the blood as it pulses in rapid spurts from the wound. The man’s name is Unger, he is thirty-four years old and half-dead from opium. Peter’s just doing him a favor at this point, murder saves his immortal soul.

He laughs, the sound almost too loud in the quiet house. Stiles glances over at him but says nothing, just continues to browse Unger’s impressive collection of drugs. They’re laid out neatly on the dining room table, a vase of dead flowers just a few feet away and a glass of fine brandy soaking into the pristine table cloth.

Unger gives one more twitch and goes still at Peter’s feet, eyes still wide from the surprise. Across the table, Stiles sets down a small vial of laudanum and wipes his hand on his pants leg. His gaze flicks up and seems to take in Peter’s face for the first time, the crimson drenching Peter’s chin and the ridges set above nonexistent eyebrows.

“Blood looks good on you.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment,” Peter asks, the words coming out slurred around his fangs. Stiles gives him that mysterious not-smile, tucking gloved hands back into the pockets of his greatcoat and walking out.

Peter’s gonna take that as a compliment.

 

X

Stiles sings when he thinks Peter is asleep.

 

XI

The first servant they hire is a Kitsune, full of bubbling energy and laughter that can even make Peter smile on occasion. Kira Yukimura is all the best parts of her parents, but Peter can see the darkness in her, the way her brown eyes flash orange in the quieter moments when she remembers.

Kira is seventeen years old, barely surviving the fire four years ago when her mother pushed her through an open window before hunters stormed inside. Inside her is the same fire that keeps Peter going, the drive for revenge and blood on her hands. He lets her take Reddick apart piece by piece and she looks like a goddess come to earth, divine in her wrath.

They spread Reddick out over a series of weeks, drawing in more hunters with each limb uncovered but the one they want isn’t showing a sign of interest. Stiles and Kira have taken to coming up with strategies in the library, bonding over their shared interest in magic that Peter can’t understand since, by nature, Werewolves can’t wield it.

They find their second servant completely by accident, a young Omega whose Alpha had died, cut in half in the woods with his blood still tacky on the boy’s face when Peter runs across him. His clothing hangs limply off his frame and he’s covered in grime that’s at least a month old, but his eyes glow blue and his mate is crouching just behind him with eyes dark as pitch.

It takes time, but Kira manages to draw information out of their new guests until Peter is satisfied. Liam takes on the role of gardener, the repetitive work helping him with his anger and control issues while Mason dives into research on hunter families in the area. Peter leaves him to it, content with the pack bonds slowly growing between all of them.

The emptiness in his chest eases.

 

XII

Unsurprisingly, it’s Mason that discovers exactly which Argent set Peter’s house on fire. The surprise comes five minutes later when he and Stiles come racing down the hallway, pushing and shoving and trying to be the one to tell Peter the news first. The Chimera wins after hooking his foot around Stiles’s ankle and sending the Demon face first over the stair railing.

The indignant squawk is the most human sound Peter’s ever heard Stiles make.

 

XIII

Peter remembers the bond he shared with Melissa, that unwavering loyalty that was seared into his instincts. He remembers how possessive he got when she was pregnant with his pups and how fiercely he’d fought to keep her alive when the hunters raided their home. He’d thought that was the most intense emotion he’d ever feel for a person.

Then he woke up one night to the sound of a muffled whimper, pained. He’s out of bed and rushing downstairs before he even knows what’s happening, finding Stiles kneeling in the entryway with a skinny man standing over him, an amulet swinging in one shaking hand. Stiles has always been pale, but this is downright _ashen_ , his eyes almost blank and his breaths coming out in sharp gasps.

Peter bares his fangs and lets a reverberating growl echo through his home. In just moments, his Betas are at his back and shifted. The man wavers, but he holds firm and doesn’t bolt like most humans would in his place. His jaw tightens and he chants something in Latin and then Stiles’s back is arching and a pained scream is torn from his throat.

“Come any closer and I’ll banish him back to hell,” the man says, voice cracking near the end as tears make his green eyes shine. Derek had green eyes, but Kate Argent plucked them right out of his head and left him for dead outside the mansion just one day before the fire. Peter’s eyes flash and he can feel the Change coming over him, but he shoves it back for now.

“Do him anymore harm and I’ll feed you your own heart.” Peter’s voice is steady, low and calm and holding the promise of violence. That skinny little _snake_ will not be leaving this house alive. “Who are you?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Why are you here?”

“Clearing a debt.” He’s sweating, it’s soaking into the plain clothes he wears. Peter remembers him, a professor that’s always hated the Hales for what they have. He gave Derek bad marks in school simply because the boy was loved by anyone he encountered.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do! She said I’d stay alive if I got rid of your pet Demon!” Harris swallows so hard it’s almost as though he’s trying to take the words back, eyes going wide. They’re sunken and have dark bruises underneath them, like he’s had quite a few sleepless nights lately. _Don’t worry, Harris, you’ll sleep for eternity when I’m through with you_.

Peter lets the red bleed back into his eyes, taking on that soft tone that makes people feel all warm and safe. Talia used to say he could charm snakes right out of their skins with that tone, a gift that not a lot of ‘wolves inherit. “You don’t have to do this, Adrian. She can’t get you here.”

“That’s not…. I can’t—”

“Just stop the spell, Adrian. We can all walk away from this.” The stiff posture relaxes inch by inch, eyes beginning to cloud over as the amulet falls from lax fingers. _Almost there, just one more nudge_. “No one ever need know.” The spell shatters like glass, Stiles sucking in deep gulps of air as Harris drops to his knees and bares his throat in submission.

Peter catches Stiles as he falls sideways, only vaguely registering when his Betas go in for the kill. Harris doesn’t even get a chance to scream before Mason is coiling a thick cloud of blackness around his throat and squeezing. The Demon is staring up at Peter with something akin to shock.

“Are you okay?”

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Save me.” The answer is on the tip of Peter’s tongue, but he swallows it down and just gives Stiles a shrug in response, helping him to stand up. They don’t talk on the way up the stairs and Stiles doesn’t fuss when Peter dresses him in a pair of sleep pants that hang low on his hips. Stiles sleeps deeply that night, regaining strength as Peter keeps watch. Inside him, his wolf is howling one word over and over again.

 _Mate_.

 

XIV

 _Pod pierzyną czarnej nocy_  
_W blasku srebrnych gwiazd_  
_Gwiżdże swoje kołysanki_  
_Rozśpiewany wiatr._

 

XV

The day Kate Argent comes into Beacon Hills is the same day that the newly rebuilt Hale Pack finds out that Stiles is afraid of spiders. They find out because they hear a shriek and then a blast of magic destroys a large portion of the dining room table, taking out Peter’s bacon along with it.

“Uh, Stiles…?”

“We’re not speaking of this,” Stiles grouses, setting back to work on his eggs.

“But,” Peter tries again, pointing at the jagged area that used to be his breakfast.

“Nope.” And he stuffs his mouth full just to drive the point home. Peter lets it drop and leans back in his seat with a frown, ignoring the way his stomach growls. When Stiles is sure no one is going to say anything, he scoots his chair closer and offers up the plate of food he doesn’t actually have to eat. It’s become habit since Kira moved back in, eating just to be part of the routine.

“You’re actually going to share your food? Last time I tried to take a piece of your toast, you almost bit my fingers.”

“You all need your strength.” Peter cocks his head to the side, blue eyes searching brown until realization dawns on him. Stiles nods in confirmation, then turns to face the Betas to explain the silent conversation. “Argent is back. She came in by coach just twenty minutes ago according to a Reaper friend of mine.” His brows scrunch up and he gets that not-smile again. “Finstock wasn’t exactly pleased to be dragged away from his bed when I gave a call.”

“We’ll hunt her down in a week. I want the Betas to have more training first.”

“I want to play with her while you do that. She took something from me, so I think I’ll take something from her.” Peter dips his head in a nod, remembering those early days when he’d overhear Stiles talking in Polish to someone that isn’t alive anymore, saying his mother’s name like a prayer to bring her back. He never got an answer in return.

“Her family has a home in the middle of town,” Mason informs him. “It’s right next to the library and the window that leads into the parlor doesn’t close properly since someone broke the lock two days ago.” There’s a gleam in the teenager’s eyes that makes pride fill Peter’s chest.

“I’ll be sure to check in on that. We wouldn’t want anyone to break in and _harm_ Miss Argent, after all.”

 

XVI

It’s close to one in the morning, the time when rational people are all asleep in their beds. Peter’s laying on his back and staring up at the silk canopy over his head when he hears floorboards creaking under someone’s foot. Stiles appears by his bed a moment later, pale skin seeming to glow in the moonlight flooding the room.

“Can’t sleep,” he asks, reaching out slender fingers and stopping just short of grazing the stubble along Peter’s jaw. Peter aches to rub his face against that hand, scent mark Stiles until pale skin is a delicious red from beard burn.

“Too many thoughts in my head.” Stiles nods and sits next to him, still within touching distance. His fingers twitch, then they cup Peter’s face and he’s leaning down and his lips are almost pressed to Peter’s, but then the bedroom door is flying open and Stiles falls backwards with a squeak of surprise.

The Betas don’t even seem to realize what they interrupted, all three of them piling up next to Peter and snuggling under the covers until they’re all touching in some way or another. A puppy pile, a newly regular occurrence that Peter can’t find himself denying. Stiles rises from where he’d fallen, brushing off his clothes with a frown making his plush lips twist downwards.

Peter holds out a hand, an invitation for him to join, but Stiles shakes his head and returns to the window seat. The wind’s howling outside, but Peter knows without having to check that the trees are motionless. The Wild Hunt is sweeping through the clouds, circling like they have for the past three nights.

_(they sense these things, scotty, when a war is brewing. They claim the souls of sinners because they’re the easiest to steal)_

Stiles stares up at the Hunt with wide eyes and hope and Peter wonders if his mother used to ride with the Fair Folk.

They pass the rest of the night like this, the pups curled up around him like they’re afraid to be left behind, Peter watching Stiles, and Stiles watching the sky. There’s no talking, just the sound of the Hunt and the soft snores that escape past Kira’s lips. Peter lets a content hum rumble through his chest, soothing the pups as they relax further against him.

Stiles leaves the room when daylight starts creeping in from the east, faint rays of it illuminating the bedroom in gold. An hour later, Peter can smell breakfast cooking and the pups begin to stir against him. Liam is the first one to wake up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and twitching his nose as he sniffs the air.

“Is Stiles cooking venison?”

“And ham,” Mason says, the words slurred from where his face is still pressed against Peter’s chest. “And the last of the sausage.” Kira’s the next to wake up, wiping the drool off her chin as she gets out of bed. She doesn’t say anything, just shuffling out of the room and not even noticing the way her nightgown has slipped off one shoulder to reveal tan skin.

Once the other two have gone back to their room, Peter gets up and dresses for the day in his finest clothes. They’re his funeral clothes, black and stiff and smelling faintly of mothballs. He thinks they’re appropriate since the day won’t end without him or Kate Argent dead. In the kitchen, he can hear Stiles quoting Shakespeare as he starts in on making pancakes.

 _Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more_.

 

XVII

There’s a conversation while the Betas are frolicking in the woods, far enough away to keep them from eavesdropping. Stiles’s eyes blaze and the simple conversation turns into an argument of epic proportions, but Peter comes out the victor all the same.

 

 

XVIII

It’s dark when they manage to draw Kate out into the woods, the Betas limping and sore but still strong. They’re snarling and growling and Peter’s so proud to have them at his side. They circle the huntress, lashing out randomly to keep her on her toes and dodging her own attacks with the ease of practice.

Stiles is nearby, eyes glowing a burnt gold as he uses his magic to throw Kate to the ground. She hits hard enough to drive the air out of her lungs and Peter can her the faint _snick_ of a bone breaking.

Kate’s teeth are bared in a snarl of pain, almost animalistic as she draws something out of her jacket. Peter’s moving on instinct, shoving Liam out of the way just as the bottle collides with his back, soaking funeral clothes in whiskey. Mason charges at her and slams his fist against her cheek, shattering the bone and knocking out most of the teeth on the right side of her head.

Argent howls in pain, but she’s still moving and Peter meets her halfway, fully shifted. This is a fight he’s been expecting for six years now and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t draw some blood. They collide in a mass of tearing claws and growls, Peter knocking her to the ground and sinking his fangs into the meat of her shoulder. He wants her to suffer the way his family did, he wants her to _burn_.

He barely even notices the knife she plunges into his side, crimson eyes moving to the Demon panting a few feet away. Stiles looks hesitant, fingers curling around something in the pocket of his waistcoat. It’s a vivid red against the black of his clothes, a conscious choice to match his Alpha’s eyes. Peter dips his head in a nod and Stiles pulls the object out slowly.

Stiles tosses the lit match onto the ground right next to Peter and Kate, the flame catching on Peter’s soaked clothes and settling into a wild blaze that Stiles’s magic encourages. The pain catches Peter off guard, but he keeps his teeth locked into Kate so she can’t escape the fire that’s ravaged Peter’s life.

Somewhere outside of the flames, the Betas are snarling and snapping and sobbing, trying their best to reach Peter. The fire grows hotter, blistering Kate’s skin until Peter can see the white of bone in her forehead. She’s still alive, eyes rolling wildly in her head.

Peter waits, ignoring the pain licking up his back until the rapid thump of her heartbeat begins to stutter. That’s when he releases her, plunging a clawed hand into her chest and ripping out her heart, throwing it to Stiles before the fire can reach it. He watches as Stiles bends down to pick it up, gold eyes meeting red and his lips quirking up in that familiar mockery of a smile. There are tears on his cheeks, glinting like diamonds in the soft moonlight.

Above them, the wind grows louder and Peter can almost hear the hoofbeats as a green, ghostly hand reaches down to snatch Kate’s soul out of her body, searching around in the hole in her chest and plucking a wisp of dull light. Peter watches with wide-eyed fascination as the Wild Hunt circles the group once and then takes off back into the sky, whipping their horses and driving them far away from Beacon Hills.

And Peter _howls_.

 

XIX

“Forget it, I’m not doing that to you.”

“Then do it for Claudia. Why should that Argent bitch get to live when our loved ones have been decimated by her family for the simple reason of being born something other than human?”

“How will I explain it to the pups?”

“You’re clever, Stiles. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

 

XX

Peter remembers the agony of fire scorching up his side, the feeling of his flesh bubbling even as it tried to heal; it was repetitive, cruel, and it was driving him half insane. He’s able to handle it this time, knowing his Betas will heal and find a new Alpha, maybe even the Talbot boy that Stiles seemed fond of whenever they traveled into town.

When he opens his eyes again he’s back in the darkness, floating and serene and cool. It’s like being suspended in water, though he wishes he could feel the waves moving him to and fro. Just one last time, this one last thing.

“You didn’t summon me.” The voice doesn’t surprise him this time and Peter’s eyes can pick out the form sitting near his feet. It’s a black fox instead of a teenager, black fur soft where it brushes against Peter’s ankle.

“I didn’t need to. My revenge is done.”

“Maybe I wanted my payment.” Peter arches a brow, watching as the black fox sidles up near his face.

_(a small bunny disappeared into its burrow while Peter’s gaze strayed towards the flash of dark fur as a fox ran into the trees.  
the fox’s foot had been caught in a trap and scott’s eyes widened and shined with tears)_

The fox’s face is right up next to Peter’s, close enough that even the darkness can’t obscure the eyes that are as familiar to him as breathing. Honey through sunlight, burnt gold, whiskey, _Stiles_.

“Come back to us,” Stiles asks, breath cold against Peter’s cheek. “Let that be your payment to me, ‘wolf. Stay alive for your pack and for me.” The realization is slow to set in, that the softness hasn’t gone away with the moonlight and Stiles is looking at him with almost adoration in his eyes.

_Mate._

_Mine_.

Peter heaves a dramatic sigh and reaches out to comb his fingers through soft fur. “Well, I suppose I will since you asked so nicely.” Stiles laughs, nuzzling against his cheek as the darkness slowly begins to break apart like clouds. “So, what did you tell the pack about why you set their Alpha on fire?”

“That you told me to do it.”

“And when they didn’t believe you?”

“Ran for my life.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” Stiles shifts and takes Peter’s hand, dragging him upright so that they can walk side by side. It feels nice, holding hands, the touch-starved part of Peter yearning for more. He wants to take Stiles somewhere quiet and then take him apart, finding out which places makes him moan and which ones make him scream. He’s so consumed by his thoughts that he never quite notices when ink black gives way to a small beach surrounded by greenery.

The Betas are sitting on a couple of logs dragged up to the lake and Peter has a vivid flashback of three other children sitting like that, pushing and shoving playfully. When it fades back to his Betas, that ache in his chest almost disappears. He has pack again, family and a mate, Peter can relax.

Peter moves on.


	2. watch them fall

XXI

Stiles remembers the thrill of his first ride, the way clouds burst like droplets of water against his cheeks and wind howled in his ears like wolves. He isn’t even scared of the specters surrounding him, green and translucent and wicked. He isn’t scared because he has his mother right behind him, arms around him with nimble fingers clutching at the reigns. His blood sings in his veins as they gallop through the stars, searching for any lost souls for the Hunt to claim as theirs.

The horses turn as one when a dazzling silver light shoots up into the sky, like a group of embers after a piece of wood collapses. Stiles can’t hold back his laugh when they dive, hoofs connecting with a dirt path that leads into dense woods. He knows without having to look that this is Beacon Hills, the information zipping into his head straight from his mother. This is Hale property and there’s a man lying half-dead near a ravine.

It doesn’t take long to reach the man with a soul like silver, the Hunt surrounding him in a tight circle of Fae horses. Stiles slips down off his mother’s horse and moves closer to the ravine, looking down to try and make out the tiny river at its bottom while his family claims the soul.

He never notices the first of the hunters until he’s got a hand at the back of his neck that’s wrenching him to his feet with enough speed to make him dizzy. “Mama,” he cries out, instinctive. Claudia’s head snaps up, the rest of the Hunt following suit with low rumbles that make Stiles’s bones vibrate.

“Have the Fair Folk learned nothing,” the hunter asks, voice rough and too loud. “You should never bring your young out before they can defend themselves.”

“Your code doesn’t let you kill children.” Claudia’s voice is firm as she takes a step forward, commanding like she talks to her riders.

“No, I suppose not.” Other hunters are coming out now, and Stiles can’t help the way he’s shaking when he realizes his family is outnumbered. Even the Wild Hunt know better than to underestimate humans when they’re all riled up like this. Hunters are cold the way most humans aren’t, Stiles is almost convinced that they’re bred that way. “Adults, however, are free game.”

“We haven’t killed any innocents.” And Stiles knows that tone, is intimately familiar with it; it covers her happy kill-you-with-kisses voice with a layer of ice so thick Stiles is half-convinced the words should be visible.

“And what about poor Alec there?” The hunter uses his free hand to gesture at the corpse, its skin waxy in the moonlight, eyes glazed like marbles. There’s bruising over his heart where hands had reached in and taken his soul, above that is a gash where his throat had been savagely torn open. “Was he not innocent?”

“He was already well past saving, Gerard. You and your men saw to that.”

“Oh no, that wasn’t my work.”

“It was mine.” It’s a small voice, feminine, as two children appear from the greenery. The one that spoke is a little girl that looks around nine, harsher than the older boy that keeps a protective hand on her shoulder. The boy doesn’t fit in with the other hunters, Stiles can see the faint wisps of his soul behind his heart, silver-gold and vibrant instead of dull. It’s not a pure thing even at twelve, but it’s not the soul of a true sinner yet.

“My Katie is a natural, isn’t she?” Stiles can hear the pride in the old man’s voice, sees the way the girl puffs her chest out while her brother stiffens. “Christopher, would you like to make the first kill?” There’s a bow in his hand and a full quiver strapped to his back, but the blond boy gives a jerky shake of his head.

“I’ll do it, Daddy.” And she does, there’s no hesitation as she raises her own bow and fires a silver-tipped arrow into the ghostly crowd. The rider makes a choked noise and drops to their knees, grasping at the shaft only to have their fingers sizzle when they make contact. “Rowan wood, silly. So beasts like you can’t heal around it.”

The Hunt is riled up just as much as the hunters now, growls and hisses filling the air only to be cut short as more arrows fly. Everything seems to happen too fast for Stiles to comprehend, a blur of greens and silvers until the Hunt is bolting into the sky with three dead left behind on the ground.

“Remember this lesson if nothing else, boy,” Gerard says, breath sour as he bends down to hiss into Stiles’s ear. “You are a monster, a foul thing that belongs in hell, and I’ll let Kate hunt you down the next time you come within a mile of Beacon Hills.” He shoves Stiles away from him and urges his children back through the woods, Christopher sending one last glance over his shoulder before the bright Autumn leaves hide him.

Stiles is left alone with only the corpses for company, his mother lying limp on the ground with green smoke slowly curling from her body. She did well with her human guise, but it falls away now and glassy eyes stare up at the full moon.

And Stiles _howls_.

 

XXII

Stiles is raised solely by his father after that, a Reaper that’s dedicated to his job and doesn’t spend nearly enough time with his son. Stiles is loved, though, he knows it in his bones that his father would die for him if need be.

Stiles doesn’t ever plan on watching someone he loves be murdered again.

 

XXIII

Gerard Argent is hard to track down considering he’s human, but Stiles finds him when he’s gone gray and sickness is eating at his body. He’s lying in bed as Stiles comes into his room, out of his mind on laudanum and God only knows what else. It doesn’t matter to Stiles, only the fear that lights up the old man’s eyes does.

“Remember me, Hunter,” he asks, low and even. It’s cold in a way his mother couldn’t manage, hard enough to make the old man’s body jerk violently in an attempt to get off the bed. Stiles is faster and he’s on Gerard in a single leap, pinning the human to the bed with ease.

“Faerie,” he growls, teeth bared in a wolfish display of hatred.

“Not quite.” Stiles lets his eyes flare golden and blue ones go wide in fear and realization. Stiles hates blue eyes, they make his stomach roil and anger burn in his veins like fire. “I’m a Demon, a half-breed of powerful parents.” He sits up, straddling the old man’s thighs so he can pull up his shirt and reveal his Mark. It’s simple compared to others he’s seen, crossed scythes inside a golden circle that glows faintly.

“It’s not possible. The Fair Folk can’t breed with other species.”

“Reapers are technically part of that species, Gerard. That’s what my dad is, a Reaper.” Stiles laughs low in his throat, almost sub-vocal as he grins down at the hunter. Too many teeth, too feral and unhinged to be considered gleeful. “He was pretty angry when he found out you made me watch my mother being killed.”

“I imagine he’ll be furious when I kill you then.” Stiles’s grin falls away as he grabs up one of the bottles on the nightstand. He knows what’s in there, that it’s becoming more and more popular with the rich and poor alike. Opium, the humans call it, deadly if too much is used.

“How much of this do you take? I know it can kill humans, but that’s about it.” Faeries liked opium as much as any other species, they use it for the young ones when they can’t sleep or get sick. It doesn’t kill them, just numbs them to the world and allows them peace for a few blessed days.

“Get off of me. _Christopher!_ ” Stiles uncorks the vial and pours out a dab of murky brown liquid on his finger, studying it in candlelight. It smells disgusting to his oversensitive nose, but it looks red in the light, almost like blood. _“Christopher!”_

“Did you know one of my little powers is to grant wishes? Not like the Djinn do, I mostly deal with anyone who has a grudge against hunters. I wonder why that is.” It’s sarcastic and Gerard sneers at it despite the pain that makes him shake. “Want a taste?” He holds out his finger, rubbing it over Gerard’s lips.

“You little bastard! I’m going to take my time with you, you’ll stay alive just long enough for me to cut your father’s throat.” And that? That’s not going to happen. Stiles grabs Gerard’s jaw and forces his mouth to stay open, dumping the vial’s contents straight down his throat. His eyes flare again and Gerard swallows on instinct, then grunts when he realizes his mistake.

It’s almost funny watching it happen; pupils contract to pinpricks, vomit bubbling up in his throat and going back down as he swallows convulsively. It takes longer than Stiles originally thought, it’s messy and smells awful.

Stiles stands up and goes over to the window, opening it enough to get a breeze inside so the smell doesn’t make him sick. It’s a sweet scent, like old candy left out in sunlight for too long. Gerard is gurgling on the bed, trying to roll onto his side and not quite succeeding. Christopher comes in just seconds later, dressed in his night clothes with his blond hair mussed and gaze hazy.

In the bed, Gerard’s breathing goes ragged and then stops entirely.

“You didn’t actively participate so I won’t kill you,” Stiles tells the younger hunter. He’s a man now, probably in his late twenties and married if the gold band on his finger means anything. Handsome too, with a stubbled jaw and muscles that would make a lesser man swoon. “You didn’t try to stop your father either.” Christopher’s jaw clenches and Stiles can almost hear his teeth grinding. “You can clean up his last mess as repentance.”

 

XXIV

Stiles gets used to being summoned and he even accepts some contracts once every few years, but none of them are truly interesting. Gold, love, and drugs are what most summoners want and Stiles finds himself wishing for the old days when people summoned the Fair Folk for good harvests and the life of a loved one near death. His mother lived for those requests.

 _(always demand a price, my little mischief. otherwise these humans will get too greedy._  
_but what about others, mama? the supernatural ones?_  
_everything comes with a price. don’t do anything for free even if they’re unhuman)_

 

XXV

Stiles is a fox when he encounters Werewolves for the first time; an adult and his pup out in the woods to observe the wildlife. The young one is crouched low, brown eyes wide as he takes in the small colony of rabbits not far from where Stiles is hiding. The adult is the one that spots him and Stiles darts away, tail flicking back and forth lazily.

He has blue eyes, that ‘wolf, and Stiles feels sick.

 

XXVI

Stiles is growing bored in his long life when he’s summoned again, the darkness of his realm a comforting thing that lets him hide in his other skin. There’s a Werewolf waiting for him there, burned and angry and wishing hard enough to make Stiles’s head spin. Calmness spreads through him slowly, though, this realm suiting his rage and easing the pain of loss if only a little.

He’s pretty in the way that most Weres are, no delicate façade on this one even before he was ravaged by fire. Stiles moves closer, just a couple of feet, and he studies the fresh scars and the Alpha spark that turns the man’s soul a bright, pulsing crimson. Stiles wants to see those eyes opened, the power that drives him.

“Who are you,” Stiles asks, curious. The ‘wolf’s head snaps in Stiles’s direction, not expecting for his call to be answered. His eyes are closed, but Stiles is kind enough to project the images of what he would see. Only Stiles can open his eyes here, only he truly belongs in this realm of frigid cold and void. “Why does a ‘wolf summon me?”

“Revenge.” His voice is hoarse, throat still healing after breathing in acrid smoke for almost an hour. The scent clings to him, like a second skin he can’t quite shed.

“That’s all anyone ever wants.” Stiles moves closer to him, letting his fur caress blistered flesh to give it some relief. No one should hurt here, not with unimaginable loss like this man is. This is a place for healing, a place for wishes. “What makes you so special?”

“Nothing, I’m sure. But I’ll pay whatever price you demand. I’ll give you anything.”

“What if I want the soul of your firstborn?” The man goes rigid and it’s _agony_ that etches its way into the lines of his face, claws raking through the air as they shoot out from previously blunt nails. Stiles knows that reaction well, the anger singing in the man’s heart, but he laughs all the same to break up the pain clouding the air. “Relax, ‘wolf, the souls of children are hardly interesting. Besides, you have that particular scent of loss that means your firstborn has already passed. What was its name?”

“Jackson.” The name passes his lips on a broken sob, the sound of a man that’s lost everything that he’s ever cared about. It makes Stiles think of twenty-four years ago when the same sound made his throat raw, brown eyes stuck on the rowan wood shaft sticking out of his mother’s chest until his father showed up and carried him away. “His name was Jackson and he was just murdered by hunters along with the rest of my pack.” Stiles’s tail flicks before he can stop it, anger flooding him and leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

“You want revenge on those hunters?” Stiles doesn’t mean to phrase it as a question since he already knows the answer, knows the outcome. Hunter blood is something Stiles loves to watch flow in the streets and he’s heard of a particular hunter that enjoys setting fires. “I’ll help you.”

“What’s your price in return?” Stiles lets a claw run along the thin skin beneath the man’s eye on the unburnt side of his face, watching in fascination as the red line heals just as quickly as Stiles makes it.

“This I’ll do for free. Hunters killed my mother and I take a special sort of glee in watching the life leave their eyes.”

He uses his magic now, feeling it flow through his body like water as it douses the phantom flames that licks up the ‘wolf’s side. The darkness of his realm is slowly replaced with starlight, tiny pinpricks of light against an endless sky that’s nothing compared to how moonlight makes this man’s face look a marble carving from ancient times.

“You need to wake up, ‘wolf. Open those pretty red eyes for me.” The man’s eyes open with a flutter of curled lashes, the vivid red of an Alpha that slowly fades to a blue that almost makes Stiles regret this contract. Eye color doesn’t determine loyalty, though, and Stiles knows he has his own issues to work out. “What’s your name? I can’t exactly call you  _‘wolf_  for however long this takes.”

“Peter Hale.”

 

XXVII

“Can you heal my scars?”

“No.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

“I can only give you your revenge, ‘wolf, not physical perfection.”

 

XVIII

Peter Hale craves touch that Stiles can’t freely give. He notices the way Peter’s fingers twitch as though to reach out and pull Stiles closer, the way he leans closer into whatever gesture of kindness the Demon allows. Stiles gets it, Peter is touch-starved and ‘wolves are tactile, but Stiles just…. Isn’t.

Foxes are mostly solitary by nature, it’s literally ingrained into Stiles’s instincts to shy away from pack behavior, but he’s trying. He’ll touch when Peter looks like he’s about to fall to pieces, remembers the little touches his dad would give him when Stiles was still a child that helped to ground him back in reality. Little things, but not often and not lingering.

Peter seems like he has an understanding of that, he doesn’t try to force any touches which Stiles is thankful for. There are nights, though, that Stiles wonders what Peter’s stubble will feel like against his fingers. He even goes so far as to perch on the edge of the hotel bed and stretches out his fingers, but then Peter’s eyes will open and the blue of them always makes Stiles think of bad things.

_(you are a monster, a foul thing that belongs in hell, and i’ll let kate hunt you down the next time you come within a mile of beacon hills)_

Stiles shakes his head and goes back to the window, looking out over the deserted streets of the town and the lone figure that prowls over rooftops with the curved metal of his scythe flashing under the starlight.

“Are you okay,” Peter asks, sitting up with the heavy blankets pooling around his waist. His chest is bare to Stiles’s gaze, a faint smattering of hair that’s the same dark blond on Peter’s head. “Stiles?” His eyes can’t quite meet the blue ones, but he nods an affirmation and goes back to watching his dad protect the territory the Stilinskis claimed before the Argents were ever conceived.

There’s a rustle of cloth and then snores that are just loud enough to keep Stiles from being lost in his past. If nothing else, he can appreciate that.

 

XXIX

Stiles is pretty sure that his father is worried. He’s pretty sure because the Reaper is currently pacing around the sitting room and ranting about how a certain Werewolf needs to work on controlling his temper on occasion. Peter, for his part, is lounging in a chair near the window, turned so that his left side is facing the others.

“You’re lucky the Viscount is too scared to retaliate,” John snarls, spinning on his heel and wagging a finger at Peter. “You can’t just hang men over a balcony by their feet! What the hell were you thinking?”

“That he shouldn’t press up against young ladies without their consent.” The tirade dries right up and Stiles has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. Peter sees that he’s gotten the upper hand and straightens in his seat. “I’ll bet Raeken will remember what I did to him every time he looks at the Martin girl.”

“He’ll also remember that she goes for the eyes,” Stiles adds, grinning. Lydia Martin was a sight to behold, all wild energy and bared teeth as she launched herself at Viscount Raeken as soon as Peter had the leach back on his feet.

John sighs and drops into a chair of his own, raking fingers through his short-shorn hair. Stiles used to keep his hair short like that, but he likes to fiddle with it when he’s stressed and that works better when it’s long.

“Alright,” John sighs after a long while, blue eyes wary. “Alright, fine, Raeken deserved all the threats and he’s lucky that Lydia didn’t tear his throat out with her teeth. Can the two of you at least promise me not to go around looking for trouble?” Peter and Stiles share a look, gazes meeting from across the room and a silent conversation passing between them. It’s a new thing, this exchange of looks and eyebrow signals, but it makes something inside of Stiles start to thaw.

From the way that John slumps in his chair, it’s pretty clear that he understands the trouble won’t end until Kate’s blood is staining the ground.

 

XXX

The newly rebuilt Hale House is a sight to behold, reminding Stiles of the old human fairy tales his mother would tell him on cold nights. There are no turrets or moats, but it’s refined like he always imagined castles to be, silence laying harshly against stone and wood alike. It’s too big, too quiet, and Stiles thinks of the boy that freed him from a trap in the woods.

_(i’ll take care of you until you can walk again, don’t worry. my father says we shouldn’t name wild animals, but i think you look like a travesura)_

He walks through the halls and doesn’t even realize he has a destination in mind until he stops outside of a closed door and his fingers are grazing the cold wood. His claws itch to come out, but he stamps down on the urge to wrench the door from its hinges and throw it with a raw cry of pain.

“That was Scott’s room.” Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin, too absorbed in his thoughts to hear the ‘wolf approaching. “He was my second-born.” Stiles meets Peter’s gaze over his shoulder but can’t quite meet his stare. It doesn’t matter anyway since Peter’s gaze is focused on the door with something like desperation making his lips twitch.

“But he wasn’t your baby, was he? Not your youngest.”

“No.” Peter’s eyes flick to the room directly across the hall and Stiles can recall a little girl’s laughter as she dances around her room with an older boy that had some serious eyebrows. “Don’t ever go in there. It’s not for you.”

“Of course.”

_(my name is scott, but everyone here calls me scotty. aunt talia says i might get to be alpha when i grow up because i carry an ember in my chest right behind my heart)_

“Do you want to talk about him? My father says that’s supposed to help you process your grief.” Peter’s shoulders go rigid and his claws shoot out to rip through a leg of his trousers. “It didn’t do me much good, but I just wanted the offer on the table. Free of charge, as always.” Stiles moves past Peter and heads out to the plot of land on the east side of the house where a garden will be created. Stiles remembers a dark-haired woman working out here for hours, cheeks red in a sunburn that heals over and over again, smile bright as she calls for her baby girl to stop terrorizing Cora.

Stiles remembers.

 

XXXI

 _W płatkach herbacianej róży_  
_Calineczka śpi_  
_Nawet przemęczony świerszczyk_  
_Zasnął w trakcie gry._

 

XXXII

There’s a day between hunter deaths when Stiles meets a young ‘were named Brett, beautiful and lazy and everything that Stiles isn’t. His movements are graceful and his muscles ripple beneath his tailored clothes and Stiles wants to study him for hours. Brett catches his gaze and smiles, predatory or promising, Stiles can’t decide which.

Stiles smiles back.

 

XXXIII

Chimeras, Stiles decides after a decidedly ungraceful face-plant, are _cheating assholes_. Mason Hewitt, despite the big brown eyes and innocent smile, is chief among them. Evil. Pain in the ass. Rude. Stiles will think of some more adjectives when Kira stops her cackling and his broken nose finishes healing.

“It was Kate,” said asshole is currently shouting. “Kate set the fire!” Stiles remembers hard blue eyes filled with hate and glee in equal measures, remembers the rowan wood shaft sticking out of his mother’s chest as she fades to vapor and drifts away on the breeze.

“You’re sure,” Peter asks, voice hitching in his throat for just a moment.

“Positive, Alpha.” There’s a pleased rumble and then Peter’s coming down the stairs, sending the Demon sprawled on the floor an amused look.

“Is there something you’d like to tell Stiles, Mason?”

Mason glances over at Stiles, looks him dead in the eye, and smirks. “I thought Demons were supposed to be graceful, Stiles. Falling over the second-floor railing is something a human might do.” He tsks and walks over to where his mate is currently howling with laughter, Liam’s grin bright as he leans on Kira for support.

Assholes, the lot of them.

 

XXXIV

Stiles wakes to the sound of Latin being chanted, an old summoning ritual that forces him away from the window seat where he’d been watching the Hunt circle through the sky on phantom horses. He’s not even fully aware that he’s moving until he’s in the entrance hall and kneeling in front of a human. The man is tall and lanky, not particularly attractive even by human standards with pale green eyes and a sheen of sweat making his forehead glisten in the moonlight.

“That amulet doesn’t belong to you,” Stiles rasps out, brown eyes glued to the amethyst stone swinging in a shaky hand. It belonged to his mother, taken when she was nearly killed by a group of hunters when Stiles was too small to ride with her and the others. She got away with her life, but the necklace had been ripped from her throat. Stiles has an idea of who that hunter was.

“It does for tonight,” the man says, then continues to chant. Stiles feels the magic weaving around him tightly, compressing his chest until he can only manage weak pants and pained whimpers. This isn’t going to kill him, that’s not the point of this new spell, it’s a banishment; back to his realm, to the cold and the void where no one can find him unless their wishes are meaningful.

A growl sounds behind him, making his bones vibrate and something in his belly unfurl in warmth. The man, for his part, just straightens his shoulders and chants faster, the sudden burst of pain making Stiles’s back arch with a wheezed cry.

“Come any closer and I’ll banish him back to hell.”

“Do him anymore harm and I’ll feed you your own heart,” Peter says, a promise delivered calmly. Stiles can imagine the way Peter’s eyes have bled to crimson, the violence hiding just under the surface behind his human face. “Who are you?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Why are you here?”

“Clearing a debt.” His sweat is soaking into his clothes now, permeating the room with a foul stench of unwashed skin and withdrawal. He’s an addict, but a smart addict since he keeps chanting just enough that Stiles can’t lash out. He wants to tear the man apart for this pain, for holding Claudia’s necklace like he has any right.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do! She said I’d stay alive if I got rid of your pet Demon!” The man swallows hard enough that Stiles can hear his throat click, like some awful confession had just rolled off his tongue when they all knew who sent him this entire time. Who else would send an addict to do their dirty work? Kate fucking Argent is going to _pay_.

“You don’t have to do this, Adrian. She can’t get you here.” Peter’s voice is all soft and sweet, reasonable in a way that Stiles has never heard it. It reminds him of the Leprechauns that can talk people out of taking their gold, talk them into deals that hold no benefit for the humans and grim amusement for the Fair Folk.

“That’s not…. I can’t—”

“Just stop the spell, Adrian. We can all walk away from this.” Adrian’s eyes begin to cloud over and his shoulders relax, the amulet falling to the ground with the soft sound of crystal against wood. “No one ever need know.”

Stiles is sucking in deep gulps of air the second the spell is broken, too weak to hold himself upright and falling to the side. Strong arms catch him before he can hit the ground, though, cradling him against a broad, warm chest. The touch isn’t something that Stiles can cherish, but he understands the ‘wolf’s need to check over a packmate. And Stiles files that word away to examine later on, the instinctual use of it troubling him far more than the comfort of Peter’s hold.

“Are you okay?”

“Why did you do that,” Stiles demands, the shock making his words sound harsh even to his own ears. No one ever saves him, not since his mother was killed. Even his father doesn’t step in anymore, just stands off to the side and watches Stiles fight his own battles and come out victorious if a little ragged around the edges.

“Do what?”

“Save me.” Peter looks like he wants to answer, like the response is dancing on the very tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down and offers up a shrug in response. He helps the Demon up the stairs to Peter’s room, dressed him in Peter’s sleep pants, and tucks him safely away in Peter’s bed. It’s a way to scent mark, Stiles realizes, and he most certainly doesn’t preen under the attention before healing sleep forces him under.

Peter’s the one that sits by the window tonight, listening to a howling wind that doesn’t make the browning leaves shake on their branches.

 

XXXV

Tormenting Kate Argent probably shouldn’t be this much fun, but it’s certainly not the worst thing Stiles has ever done. Watching her chase her own tail as Stiles manipulates the shadows will keep him entertained for _months_.

 

XXXVI

“This is my mom,” Scott says, hefting the little black fox closer to his chest. “Mama, say hi to Travesura.” The woman turns and Stiles is met with an amused quirk of the lips as brown eyes examine him.

“Hello, Travesura, it’s nice to see you again.” Stiles makes a sound that’s as close to purring as he can get, letting Melissa rakes her fingers through the fur on his back. All the ‘wolves have been doing that lately and it makes Stiles want to bolt away, back to the forest where he can be left alone. His paw is healed by now, but he can’t quite bring himself to leave Scott’s side.

“Father says I have to release him soon. I guess foxes don’t have packs like we do.”

“That’s right, sweetie. He’ll be better off in the woods.” Stiles wants to argue about that, but he doesn’t give himself away and curls his head beneath Scotty’s chin. It’s completely ridiculous, Stiles is aware of that, but he’s come to think of the child as one of his. A kit in need of constant supervision so that Laura doesn’t try to shove him again. It makes Stiles’s hackles rise even if he knows it’s all in good fun.

“Fine, but I won’t be happy about it.”

 

XXXVII

Peter should be asleep, they have along day ahead of them in the morning, but instead the ‘wolf is lying in bed and staring up at his canopy. He’s interesting to watch, but Stiles prefers him deep in slumber when all the hard lines go soft and his lips part in rumbling snores.

Stiles gets up from the window seat and comes to stand next to the bed, reaching out slender fingers to offer a comforting touch but drawing them back to his palm before they can graze Peter’s stubble. He can’t make himself do this, can’t _touch_ the way that Peter needs him to.

“Can’t sleep,” he asks instead.

“Too many thoughts in my head.” Stiles frowns at that, settling onto the bed carefully to avoid jostling the ‘wolf. He knows all about thoughts that swarm like bees, buzzing away in his head and keeping him from peace. He tried drugs once, drunk enough wine to put a human in the grave, but nothing helped. _Mom used to kiss me on those nights, a kiss to take away the pain_. And it’s instinct that takes over despite the way he doesn’t like the feeling of stubble or that blue eyes still make his belly squirm like it’s full of snakes.

His lips are nearly touching Peter’s when the bedroom door flies open to permit the Betas, Stiles jerking in surprise hard enough that he falls to the ground with a shriek. Stiles frowns as he stands, brushing off his clothes and meeting Peter’s gaze again, feeling a little sick. He’s almost glad that they were interrupted now, even if part of him remembers how he felt so safe in Peter’s arms a week ago. And when he moves back to the window seat rather than accepting Peter’s outstretched hand, he only feels the slightest bit of remorse.

Overhead, the Wild Hunt sweeps over Beacon Hills and a Reaper patrols on the ground.

 

XXXVIII

“What the fuck is that?”

“A family of mice, Stiles.”

“But why are they in the house?”

“For my Scotty.”

 

XXXIX

Stiles cooks up a large breakfast that morning, starting with scrambled eggs and ending with a medium rare venison steak that’s still got some blood pooling under it on the plates as he sets them out. Liam is the first one in the kitchen, bruises smudged under his eyes. Mason and Kira shuffle in after him, still half asleep as they pile up around the table and begin fixing their plates.

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,” Stiles quotes, the Betas all groaning in disgust. Early morning Shakespeare, according to Kira, is cruel and should be punishable by death. Peter joins them ten minutes later, dressed in funeral blacks that make him look washed out.

“Or close the wall up with our English dead,” he finishes, grim.

 

XL

Stiles is burning with his anger, but it doesn’t burn nearly as bright as Peter and Kate do in the middle of the forest.

 

XLI

Peter waits until he can’t hear his Betas before he turns to where Stiles is scrubbing at a stubborn spot on one of the plates, soap bubbles clinging to his arms all the way up to his elbows. It’s going to be a serious talk, he knows, can scent the desperate ache coming off Peter. His fox wants to hiss at it, run away into the woods or retreat into the bedroom upstairs where not even Peter goes.

“I need to ask you a favor, Stiles.”

“Then ask, but I won’t promise I’ll grant this wish to you.”

“It’s not a wish, it’s a request.” Stiles arches a brow, but he doesn’t stop scrubbing or meet blue eyes that are just a pale shade away from being awful. Peter steps close to him, making sure their arms don’t brush as he begins rinsing the clean dishes and setting them aside to be dried later on.

“My answer remains the same, ‘wolf.”

“I want you to kill me again.” And it takes all of Stiles’s restraint not to break the plate clean in half at those words and the stab of panic that lances through him like a hot knife in his chest.  
_(or a rowan wood shaft with a silver tipped arrowhead and a malicious hand that sends it flying)_

“What?” The word is choked out, barely comprehensible and all he can manage as he actually turns to look at Peter. “Are you fucking kidding me? After all this planning, all this blood, you want me to fucking _kill you?”_ Peter nods and looks genuinely surprised when he has to drop to the floor as the plate goes soaring over his head and collides with the wall.

_(anger flaring in blue eyes as a glass hits a hunter’s wall, slivers and shards glinting like diamonds on a carpeted floor that soaked through with meyers’s blood)_

“Let me explain—”

“You don’t get to do this now, Peter! Those kids depend on you to keep them sane, you’re their _Alpha_! You don’t just get to roll over and bare your neck right now!” And his eyes, he knows, are burning gold and there’s a faint green shimmer outlining him after all those years he spent around the Hunt.

 **“Listen to me!”** The growled command actually makes Stiles shudder and tilt his head back, a ‘wolf’s instincts rather than his own. To his credit, Peter doesn’t scent mark him afterwards, though his fingers curl into his palm with the effort. “Just….” His voice falters now, fading away like mist in sunlight. “I want Kate to burn like my family did and the only way that’s going to happen is if I keep her pinned down.”

“Forget it, I’m not doing that to you.”

“Then do it for Claudia. Why should that Argent bitch get to live when our loved ones have been decimated by her family for the simple reason of being born something other than human?” Stiles flinches away from the words, rubbing at his chest where the shaft of wood stuck out of his mother all those years ago. He feels all fight rush out of him in that moment, leaving him an aching and confused kit again.

“How will I explain it to the pups?”

“You’re clever, Stiles. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

 

XLII

“Why here,” Kira asks, eyes still orange in her anger. It’s aimed at Stiles, the question and roiling emotions, and the Demon gives a languid shrug. The beach is quiet and out of the way, hidden by Fae magic so that only a select few can find it. Peter’s been searching for it, _wishing_ for it, and Stiles can give him this if nothing else.

“Because this is where Peter feels the most at home.”

“But Peter’s dead.”

“Yes, and you and your pack chased me for three entire days until Liam became so exhausted that he ran into a tree. Can we move on now?” She scowls but doesn’t offer a protest as she clears debris from the moon-bleached sand. Liam and Mason are playing in the water a few feet away, the Werewolf’s broken nose slowly healing and the blood getting washed away from his face with each splash.

“Someone’s here, Stiles. Someone who isn’t human or Were.” Stiles turns his head and smiles when he spots his father, the older man looking haggard and bone tired.

“I found him,” John says. “I put him in your little realm and he’s sleeping until you get there.”

 

XLIII

Stiles remembers the thrill of his first ride, the way clouds burst like droplets of water against his cheeks and wind howled in his ears like wolves. It’s nothing compared to the feeling of fingers scratching through his fur or his ‘wolf gazing over at him with eyes bright and smile soft, tender. Peter reaches out and Stiles leans into the touch, nuzzling into the warm palm in spite of himself. His mate needs touch, Stiles will oblige every now and then since Peter’s been so good at respecting his boundaries. And when he looks into those blue eyes, Stiles doesn’t feel sick anymore.

“Welcome home, ‘wolf.”

 

 

Travesura means “mischief” in Spanish. The chapter titles were taken from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=joYaaipAhQ8) song.

**Author's Note:**

> The lullaby Stiles sings is “Śpij Laleczko”


End file.
